5 revised poems

Missing sports

By Rafael Osuna

Why?

Why do I have to miss the practice of my sport?

I ponder, as I sit on my court

My hockey rink

My place in the world

When I look around, it shrinks

It is my home, on and on it twirled

But then the events come up

Now I have a band concert

All because of a cup

That just couldn’t be filled, now I hurt

Why? Is it the power of greed?

Or simply a human need?

Who plans my schedule?

I say in a rage

Oh wait – it think it was me; I have to reschedule

But too late I think; its time to turn the page

To move on, to better things.

Where I can send pucks toward a net,

Where they might hit posts with little tiny dings.

Oh I wish

That I could hear that beautiful swish

But suddenly I sit hungrily

At a band concert, looking so very ugly

In a horrible depression

That can only end with an angry aggression

I’ve said it once I’ll say it again,

Why, oh why,

Do I have to miss the practice, of my sport?

The Colors of a Hockey Player

By 761

The colors of a hockey player

Sometimes, a furious red

Streaking for vengeance,

Of an penalty gone uncalled

Sometimes a glowing orange

The competitive spirit

Shining like a lighthouse,

Leveling all competitors in its path

Sometimes a steel gray

When you have no choice,

But to win

The game face

Nothing on the outside

True compassion on the inside

But alas,

Here comes the navy blue,

Your team is being defeated,

A measly seven to two

And the score keeps getting worse

But then, at the very end

You must pay attention,

For a small golden ray of hope

Will lead the willing team

To victory

These are the colors,

Of a hockey player

Battery

I wonder how much battery is left in my computer

The silly old thing always lies

But it is quite the trouble shooter

It tells me I have twenty minutes left

But wait a second it just

The Baseball bat

By Rafael Osuna

The baseball bat

It is a rocket launcher

Blasting baseballs into an abyss

Sending them hundreds of feet

Until you cannot see,

But a little tiny golf ball

It sends them on a vacation

Begun with a crack!

And ending with a thud

This baseball bat,

It is a machine,

A never ending cycle,

Of sending baseballs

Spiraling

Spinning

And into a glove

This

Is the rocket launcher

That is a baseball bat

Ode to my relationship with Sofia

By Rafael Osuna

A relationship

It can come in any size,

Shape, weight, seriousness, or lightheartedness

Some can be bad

Evil, tedious things

We work to avoid and put off

And some we look forward to

A bright piece in a dark day

And my relationship

With my great sister

Can be the best of both

And the worst of each

But a relationship

Is a flower,

And if

You don’t take good care

It will wilt, and never grow back

But if you are careful,

It will survive the winter,

And grow back again.

This is the nature

Of my relationship,

With my sister;

Sofia.

There is another sky,
Ever serene and fair,
And there is another sunshine,
Though it be darkness there;
Never mind faded forests, Austin,
Never mind silent fields -
Here is a little forest,
Whose leaf is ever green;
Here is a brighter garden,
Where not a frost has been;
In its unfading flowers
I hear the bright bee hum:
Prithee, my brother,
Into my garden come!

By Emily Dickinson

I like this poem because of the rhyme scheme. It is very simple, but I enjoy that about it. It has some deeper thinking involved, finding the metaphors and similes. I believe that this means you must take more time and enjoy this poem more. It uses many poetic techniques, including alliteration, metaphor, repetition, etc. it is written in iambic trimester, and that matches the poem perfectly. It is short and flows very well.

Longing by Friedrich von Schiller

Could I from this valley drear,
Where the mist hangs heavily,
Soar to some more blissful sphere,
Ah! how happy should I be!
Distant hills enchant my sight,
Ever young and ever fair;
To those hills I'd take my flight
Had I wings to scale the air.

Harmonies mine ear assail,
Tunes that breathe a heavenly calm;
And the gently-sighing gale
Greets me with its fragrant balm.
Peeping through the shady bowers,
Golden fruits their charms display.
And those sweetly-blooming flowers
Ne'er become cold winter's prey.

In you endless sunshine bright,
Oh! what bliss 'twould be to dwell!
How the breeze on yonder height
Must the heart with rapture swell!
Yet the stream that hems my path
Checks me with its angry frown,
While its waves, in rising wrath,
Weigh my weary spirit down.

See--a bark is drawing near,
But, alas, the pilot fails!
Enter boldly--wherefore fear?
Inspiration fills its sails,
Faith and courage make thine own,--
Gods ne'er lend a helping-hand;
'Tis by magic power alone
Thou canst reach the magic land!

I like this poem because of its powerful nature. It really speaks to one about where you are and where you could be. But you yourself have to go and get, overcoming obstacles in your path. The poem is about going somewhere not simply staying where you are. A joyous adventure awaits those with a hardy spirit, reaching for their dream. However, it has a bit of an old written style that can be difficult to decipher. This makes for beautiful stanzas, for example ‘Harmonies mine ear assail’ and ‘How the breeze on yonder height.’

            Another good thing about this poem is its use of alliteration (“while” “waves” “wrath” “weigh” “weary”) and (“hangs” “heavily” “how” “happy”) this combination makes for a diverse sound, that rings throughout your head in a melodic way. Each line is written in trochaic triameter, a not very common sound that makes it all the better.

Student Poem Analysis

The ocean fog

Is like a great gray owl,

Swooping in from the sea

On silent wings,

Enveloping the shoreline.

In the evening,

After the sun goes down

And the moon rises over the ocean,

The owl awakens

Far offshore.

It glides toward the coast,

Slowly, steadily,

Creeping closer and closer

As the night draws on.

Its gray wings drift

Over the kelp beds

And over the beaches,

Spreading silence.

When the sun rises

Over the horizon,

It shines in vain;

For the silent owl,

Coming in by night,

Has spread its gray wings

Over the shoreline,

Clinging to the sea,

Blanketing the forests,

Wrapping around the mountains.

The owl spreads a curious silence

Across the coast,

And casts the new day into

A murky twilight.

As the morning drags on,

The sun finally gathers its strength

And drives the silent owl away.

I enjoy this poem because of its thoughtful use of descriptive language. It doesn’t overuse it, like in many poems, but instead gives us subtle tones and a variety of language in order to create an image in your head that flows throughout the poem like a short movie. This is emphasized by using techniques like alliteration, and repetition. The author tricks our minds into focusing solely on the owl by using a variety of language, but using the word owl a considerable amount.

            For me the essence of the poem lies in the background of the poem. Not really the owl, but the beautifully described background. The poem really gives you an idea of the owl passing a landscape with forests, mountains, and the time of day passing with a sun-rising, a murky twilight and an owl rising out of the night.

What I Think About Poetry

I think that poetry is like a jail cell in the sense that it is a very difficult and long process, but can be very rewarding when you get out. A Jail cell has walls, but a poem has specific parameters that you have to follow, whether you are writing in a haiku, or a free-verse poem with a specific rhyme scheme. This can be very frustrating, and sometimes you wish to lash out and give up. But if you do that, then you will end up having even more time in jail, or have to spend more time writing your poem.

                Another correlation between the two is work ethic. If you put in the hard work and spend lots of time on editing, you can almost make good poem even faster! But if you slack off, and spend little to no hours working then you will take longer, and have a bad poem. If you are bad in jail, then you will have to spend even more time in jail (not good). But if you put in community service hours, and be very good, then you will be released early. These are the main reasons why I think that poetry is a long and strenuous process; one that is very rewarding.